


Tomorrow's Music

by Wilde9



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Drachma, Dubious Science, Gen, M/M, Mild Language, Multi, Original Character(s), Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:01:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22771408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wilde9/pseuds/Wilde9
Summary: Life is a beautifully twisted symphony, always constant, always there.When the war reaches the point of utter annihilation, an reluctant group of two will device a plan to save life from itself. Perhaps, Ed will be able to save himself too.
Relationships: Edward Elric & Original Character(s), Edward Elric & Roy Mustang
Kudos: 10





	1. Camaraderie At Arm’s Length

**Author's Note:**

> This fic started from a passing thought "how Kimblee was able to convince Drachmans to attack Fort Briggs?" which turned into "Does Kimblee know someone in Drachma?" which turned into "Did Father had strings in Drachma?"  
> The Drachma will be largely based on Imperial Russia.

It’s cold. It’s so goddamn cold even the famed Briggs automail is having a trouble as he navigates through snow. Even wrapped with dozen clothes, Ed’s automail port gives a painful pinch with every step he takes. That house better be close, Ed thinks tiredly, cozy little house with an open fireplace, and a thick blanket with warm drink. It better be close or he’s going to-

  
Ed stills.

  
Icy wind weaving through the forest… tree branches swaying with heavy coat of snow… his own heart thundering behind his ribs… he throws a dirty look behind his back and puts a hand on his chest. Still there—close to his heart, each sheets of paper crinkling with his breath. He forces himself to move faster, striding deeper into the taiga, trying to make as little sound as possible. Better not to test his luck; no greater fate will save him from a speeding bullet.

  
If Ed remembers correctly, he has at least two days and three hours until the word of his desertion comes out according to his calculations. The Drachman battalion that had camped here should be on the other side of the forest by now—if he wasn’t fed false information. Again, he resists the urge to check his papers, his calculations and the letter from the mysterious sender. Enough sleep has been sacrificed in favor of going over the damned thing, no need to make unnecessary noise now—but damn, does he want to check it now. Specially the letter… the only thread of hope he’s clutching to; if this is false lead then… no… No, Roy wouldn’t give him a shady deal.

  
As much of a bastard he is… he was, the man was good at checking his sources, digging into one’s mind and make friends on careful planning. Whoever this “professor” is, Roy must’ve known the man enough to trust him with Ed. He stumbles on a tree root buried under snow, but catches himself before he face-dives into the branches. Focus, Ed, focus! You didn’t go through all that shit just to alert yourself to a random soldier. He takes a deep breath and continues to stride forward.

  
What if the professor was captured on his way here? Ed would be sitting in middle of nowhere with nothing but bunch of papers. Damn it. If that would be the case, he wouldn’t even be in enough shape to break him out of whatever Drachman prison camp he would be sent to. Most likely, the professor would be shot on the spot for betraying his country but Ed’s mind is not strong enough for that level of pessimism at the moment.

  
The setting sun draws a long shadow through the forest, painting the sky with orange and red. He looks away and shudders. A snow-covered roof peaks through the thick trees—a sight nearly bringing tears to his eyes—revealing a small weather-beaten wooden cottage. Doesn’t matter. If there’s walls to shield from the wind, even a doghouse would bring Ed to joy.

  
He walks up to the door, and pauses before it. No sound from inside. Barely noticeable light can be seen through the window. Even less noticeable array etched into the door frame. Opened without any counter, this highly imbalanced array will blow up any unwanted guest to million pieces, while shielding whoever behind the door. Smart. As he brings a counter array from the letter tucked inside, he lets his eyes wander. On the broken stool beside the door, lays a snow-covered slice of bread, a shot of vodka beginning to freeze, and some kind of locket showing strangers’ faces. He grimaces at the sight, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling pooling in his stomach. Whatever, could be anyone.

  
At last, the array balances, rushing him to the embracing warmth of the house, easing his stiff joints, relaxing. Maybe little too much because someone yells at him to close the damned door.

  
“Sorry.”

  
“It’s alright. Have a seat, you must be terribly cold.” Ed turns and stops on his tracks. On the thick Aerugon rug in front of the fireplace, covered in soft Xingese silk sits a man barely older than him. He sips a hot chocolate slowly (how the hell did he find it when Ed spent a good chunk of his summer searching for candies to send to Al?), and raises an eyebrow at Ed like he’s the weird one. Well, at least the man offers a mug of hot chocolate without a word, so whatever.

  
They sit quietly, sipping and thinking; what should be a cozy moment filled with heavy tension. Ed looks around the house—too distracted to enjoy the taste of his drink (shame)—and notes the dusty few furniture barely holding together, two briefcases with one opened and one not, and a mirror covered in black cloth. He looks at the man, who’s making no effort to hide his stare.

  
“Where is the professor?” Ed breaks the silence.

  
“How do you know I’m not the professor?”

  
“For one you wouldn’t be asking that.” He frowns. “Ro-General Mustang described the professor, and you have way too blond hair for a brunet.” Younger and shorter too, but he bites his tongue because still, the lad looks a head taller than him. He seems to notice it anyway and gives a chuckle that quickly disappears.

  
“I’m his student of long time. The professor…” he looks to the side “…we got ambushed. There were just too many soldiers and nowhere to run.” The man gives no further information. The fire cackles briefly, sending sparks that goes unreacted by them both.

  
“Shit… Shit! SHIT!” Ed throws the empty mug into the heart of fire, spitting even more curses as the minutes pass by, hopelessness clawing at him by the throat. The man says nothing, jade embers watching him as Ed slide into rage, sorrow, frustration, and eventually, into bitter silence.

  
“As a lifelong friend and a student of his, I assure you, there’s no need for such display. I can handle his arrays just fine.” He bites out.

  
Damn... A great way to treat a grieving host by acting like a tantrum throwing twelve-year-old and not a war hardened twenty something man. He can feel the chastise Al would have given had he been here. Ed’s face burns, shame and frustration fueling the fire inside, and he settles on looking at the man’s shoulder instead of his eyes.

  
“Sorry about your professor… and… about that too.” he points at the broken mug. The man sighs, dragging a heavy hand over his pained features. Breathe in, breathe out. He looks up again, jade eyes filled with hard determination. Huh. Maybe Ed can work through this. “It’s Ed. Edward Elric, the former state alchemist. Nice to meet you.” he extends a hand. The man snorts and takes it.

  
“Ilya Mikhailovich Lobaev, the last wandering Bogatyr. You may call me Ilya.” That sounds familiar. Where did he hear this before? Somewhere around the gossiping troops…  
“…Wait, you’re the Ghost Romanov?” Ilya inhales sharply.

  
“I assume you know better than to call me by some names commoners spit on the streets.”

  
“Well, what’s wrong with it? Isn’t the ghost a kind of a cool nickname?”

  
“Of course, you don’t know,” he mutters, “It falls into less than a nice territory when translated into Drachman.” The last rays of the evening dissipate into the dark sky, the night is enveloping.

  
“You got your professor’s papers?”

  
“Of course, right here.” He pulls a bag full of papers and notebooks as Ed brings up his bunched papers sheepishly. “Professor wrote a lot things here and there. Things go around smoothly but, ugh, they just stuck on one hiccup.”

  
“Hmm. I see. But, don’t you think it’s also a too much of probability and guesswork?” Ed says, going over the papers, squinting.

  
“All scientists start by guessing, Ed. We only need to find out if the reality sticks to our guesswork.”

  
“I guess. So, I’ve been told I should provide a solution for the energy source which I assume is the hiccup?” the lad nods. “Wanna tell me what you’re doing?” Ilya looks vaguely uncomfortable at his question.

  
“Well, to answer your question I must explain how it came so. I assume you’re not overly familiar the Drachman history, particularly the last three decades of it?” at his nod Ilya continues.

  
“What happened was a great shame, a dark day for our country. The two ruling houses of Drachma—Adalvolk and Adalbern—were always in odds with each other whether be it government policies or limits of Tsar’s powers. There were rumors surrounding the Adalbern house and how ruthless they were to their enemies, though not unfounded, it was still exaggerated. It shaped the public opinion for worse when the Tsar Alexander II was assassinated without an heir to the throne; the late Tsar’s brother took the throne blamed the house Adalbern for it.

  
With the added rumors fueling the fire, it was only a matter of time when it all exploded. And when the… when the body of Artyom, the heir vanished, appeared at the hands of the house Adalbern, it really exploded. It didn’t matter if the Adalberns really did kill the heir or not—people just wanted a scapegoat. Professor and I were able to escape the country before the genocide started.” He looks lost, staring at the barely glowing embers at the fireplace. Ed takes a fire poker near and prods it into life, weak flames dancing.

“I suppose that was a big push behind professor’s motives, his want to go back in time and fix everything, his desire to build… a time machine.” Ilya takes a delicate Xingese cup, filling it with hot chocolate and passes it to Ed who smells the liquid dubiously before drinking it. “Before we escaped, we got our hands on one of the papers from the research team you were part of; if I remember correctly, it must’ve been the draft for the theory of relativity.”

“Wait, how the fuck did you get your hands on it?”

  
“Professor had a way of… convincing people in need into accepting his help in exchange for a… small favor.”

  
“You mean he blackmailed them.” Ed snorts.

  
“My, my, Mr. Elric! Why would you call professor’s kindness in such vile way?” he mockingly gasps. “But really though, it’s not as dire as you may think it is. One of your teammates, Doctor Rosen, professor saved his daughter from a sickness a while ago and collected the debt when the time was due.”

  
“I didn’t know Doctor Rosen had a family.” Ed says, thinking about the soft-spoken man he worked with before the… doesn’t matter. “So, you got your hands on the paper then what?”

  
“Ahem, yes. Professor was fascinated by this paper since it complemented his theory so well. Specially the probability of wormholes existing. If we can connect any two points space and travel through it, why not any two points in time as well?

  
Professor’s theory was that time is an illusion. In space, we can move back and forth freely while in time we can only go in one direction. But why? That’s how professor offered an idea that maybe time is not a single property but an emergent one. After all, a single molecule of water doesn’t have a tide but as a group, an ocean, it does! So, he conceived the universe as a series of still frames that creates an illusion of time passing like a film. No single frame contains a time but when strung together in order, it does!

  
So, now all he has to do is choose a frame he wants to travel to! However, that’s… where it got muddled. How are we going to choose? How are we going to travel? BUT!” Ilya pauses for dramatic effect. “We got our hands on that paper! Now with the wormholes, we can travel in time! Since the wormhole is just a black hole without an event horizon, all we have to do is to create one, keep it open, and hop onto our destination!”

  
Ed looks at his host for a long time. Unlike Ed who traipsed through mountains and forests, starved and exhausted thing crawled into the cottage, Ilya looks like someone who trapesed through mountains and forests, starved and exhausted thing crawled into the cottage and put a make up on. The only difference between their dumpster fire is that Ilya put a glitter on it and acted as if it wasn’t catching fire on his sleeves.

  
“I gotta say, man, you sound like an absolute lunatic. But your ideas make sense so I’ll follow through.”

“That’s the spirit!”

  
They talk through the calm night, fireplace cackling a happy spark every now and then, cold breeze behind the door just audible. Tomorrow morning, they will etch the array on open field behind the house and gather things for the travel… Time travel. Ed still can’t believe he’s actually following this mad plan. But... but if it works then he’ll finally talk to Al and Winry again, instead of wondering why they’re not writing to him, if they survived the Drachman attack or not, trying to convince himself that maybe the messenger is not able to deliver their letters yet. Perhaps he will help Al pick a cute little kitten for celebration which will obviously turn into five cute little kittens because Al just can’t separate the siblings from each other.

  
When they finalize the array design, he asks Ilya what he’s going to do after the travel. Ilya is quiet for a long time. Ed doesn’t take this as a refusal to answer. Roy used to get quiet when he was thinking too… Perhaps Ed will apologize him even if it won’t mean anything to his younger self. “I’ll save my sister.” Barely above a whisper. “I’ll save my sister and save my professor too. He wasn’t… well before we escaped the country.”

  
Ilya talks about a garden his sister used to grow, fragrant clouds of roses and peaches, a dream realized in the waking world. It burned down from a house fire before. Perhaps he’ll be able to save them too. Ilya then brings out a crystal bottle of Drachman black water, the taste awful but burns pleasant after a sip. When the bottle is halfway through finishing their conversation is on politics. Very typical.

  
“Can you fucking believe it? Those… assholes… built a fucking weapon out of my fucking theory. It was supposed to be a revelation not…” a sad little hiccup, “…not a destruction.” Ed slurs, carrying each word with extreme dizziness. “And look what happened. Amestris just fucking bombed Drachma; leveled a fucking mountain range… piece of shit.” Ilya gives him a sympathetic pat on the back.

  
“Oh, dear Edward. Nobody would’ve known that Cretan son of a bitch would’ve created the atomic bomb just as nobody would’ve known the Amestris would’ve been foolish enough to drop it on Drachma.” His voice rings as clear as a bell. “You were merely a link in the chain, dear Edward. If you didn’t take the position on that team, somebody else would’ve filled it. Don’t beat yourself over someone else’s wrongdoings or else you will end up in pulp.”

  
Ed sighs out a chuckle too much like a sob. That’s a one way to look at the things. He looks at his companion and feels himself surprised at the sight. Why is he surprised? Ilya looks fine, posture as rigid as before, eyes sharp and smile easy. His eyes as searching as before and his voice melodic… Shit. Ilya must’ve seen his realization because he darts backwards into the wall in a blink and Ed can’t muster enough strength to chase after him. Shit! His eyelids feel heavy and his body hits the ground like a sandbag. SHIT! Ilya knows he can’t even lift a finger to save his life because he’s beside him now, kneeling down to look at him in the eyes.

  
“Wht d’ ye do?” Ed croaks. He can’t focus.

  
“Don’t worry Ed. You’re just drunk.” Liar! Ilya must’ve understood the unspoken cry; he smiles sadly.

  
“Your research papers aren’t the only thing professor got out of Doctor Rosen; I’ve read about you, Ed. And I know you wouldn’t agree with my methods if I told you so. I’ll tell you more when you wake up, Ed. For now, sleep. You’ll need it.”

  
No matter how much he struggles, Ed can do nothing against the deep sleep griping him down. Fuck Drachman forests and their stupid drinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me if i need to add or update the tags  
> edit: Should probably explain some of the things here and there.  
> 1\. In Russia, it's usually believed that the one's soul will visit the places it liked or go for the sinned places to ask for forgiveness forty days after the funeral. For nine days after the funeral, the photo of deceased one, black bread, and shot of vodka is placed for the soul. (Some just pour vodka over the grave.) There's also a superstition the mirrors absorb the ghost of recently deceased so they cover them up with cloth.  
> 2\. The oc's name is from one of the three bogatyrs in Russian folklore, Ilya Muromets, (he suffered illness as a child which may inspire some things in future) and Lobaev rifle.  
> 3\. Ghost indeed doesn't sound nice in Russian  
> 4\. The Drachman history will be largely based on WW1 Imperial Russia and the Time of Troubles. Alexander the second is based on real historical figure who was too assassinated, but succeeded by his son who was much more ruthless. Also it's worth checking out the painting Ivan the Terrible and his Son Ivan (it depicts the major event that pushed Russia into Time of Troubles, 's pretty controversial painting but screw it, i'm gonna create make believe land has anything i want.)  
> 5\. Doctor Rosen is Nathan Rosen, the man behind the Einstein-Rosen bridge (wormhole)


	2. Letters in Drachma

July 30th, 1926

Resenbool

Dear brother

Thanks for sending candy and more. I can’t even imagine how in the world you've managed to get your hands on them when Resembool is [ REDACTED ]

Home is safe as always, if changing a little. Even if the war can’t reach this little corner of the universe, the effects of it can be felt deeply. People are gathering food and supplies for… well, I don’t know what but we know we should too. There’s tension in the air, brother, and the early arrival of autumn only made things worse. I bet the things are same there.

Your advice on Winry’s health worked really well; her fever is down and she’s been getting better by hours and I’m certain she will bounce back to work at no time—even if we would very much like her not to. Seriously, it’s been only a day and she want to go back to work because _responsibility_ , as if the responsibility will hold her elbow when she’s swaying on her legs, give her rest when she needs sleep and feed her when she forgets her dinner. No one was healed by being shackled to obligations nor did neglect cured illness. Write her, brother, tell her that she would work better if she’s at full health—only your voice is missing from our combined effort.

If there’s one thing you and Winry have in common, it’s that damned bullheadedness you both abundantly possess. Perhaps you lot get a certain joy out of making people worry over you but believe me when I say it’s no fun on the other side.

I even bet you’re not even eating your dinner! Yes, EDWARD, I know how you neglect your health and mind when you're anxious and I don't even need to remember thousand other times you've done so to suspect it. And before you ask, no, your coworkers did not tell me about you; I used my brotherly bond to find out about it. So, don’t you dare go bother Greg and James; they’re very polite bunch. Please, brother. If there’s at least one thing you can do about _this,_ it’s making us worry less, not more.

Now that I’ve covered the two major things I’ve wanted to tell you, I can finally say this: I’ve missed you. I know the things have been tense between us ever since you’ve made your decision, but don’t think I’ve been giving you cold shoulder (even though I would be justified to do so) because I suddenly grew to resent you. You’re my brother and my family—I’ll always love you, even when I’m mad at you. I know you had to do it and whatever million other reasons are there—which I totally understand—but it’s hard not to get hurt and forlorn… because I care about you, Ed. We all care about you and love you very much. The letters… they’re the highlights of my day and I’m always grateful to receive them from you.

Perhaps when this awful war ends, we will meet again.

Your loving brother who

will always support you

no matter what.

P.s: I gotta say, brother, when you mentioned the idea of mold-based medicine and such, I thought you actually lost your mind for a second there. But I’m glad it wasn’t the case. Thanks for sending that study here.

P.p.s: I will write you every now and then if not once a week, brother, it’s not one-time thing where I send you a single letter to last an entire war. Stop worrying. I can hear you angsting from all the way here.

* * *

Somewhere in unidentified location, 23rd December, 1926

My darling Ilya,

I want you—my efficient partner,best friend, the light of my bleak and soon-to-cut-short life—to know this is a goodbye.

I write this letter not out of desire but out of necessity given our situation, and from the air of things, it will come sooner than both of us ever expected. I hear many things, dear friend, many things that hang on air, swung between soldiers, and fester out in the streets—many you may even suspected. No one expected those Amestrian bunch to be this callous much less audacious… I won’t go into much details as I grow nauseous simply thinking about it. But our fear was not unfounded. I assume you’ve already heard the news as I write this letter.

We, humans, are poor silly things, bless our souls, and does foolish things with irrational ideology, dooming ourselves further and further into our ever-nearing demise. Look at your clothes, dear friend, our ancestors decided that the wool on the sheep is best to spin into thread and weaved into these peculiar shapes to keep us warm. Take a deep breath and feel the lungs expanding in your chest, put your ear on my chest as I sleep and listen to the heart beating; humans made possible for the likes of us to continue this existence with scribbly lines and weird energy. We care and we create, we show such compassion that shakes the pillars of science yet we still do… this

I do not want to contemplate what went through the heads of those who approved this project, funded this blasphemy, and launched this horror. I simply cannot comprehend that much apathy.

I suspect you get what I’m getting at.

The story of our life cannot be written without blood and I will not deny the lives I’ve took just as I will not justify them. To try to do so is the most cruel and heartless thing to do. Afterall, it is how we managed to escape to Xing and come back to see this sorrow. But there’s a fine line between in self-defense and human sacrifice. We will cross this line and only you will come out on the other side. I regret that I wasn’t by your side that day and I detest the fact I will have to do the same again. Nonetheless, the matter of how I feel or what I wish is insignificant compared to the responsibility we shoulder at the moment. All this will be washed away in rain, and none will matter except the crossing of this timeline.

Never let blood flow senseless, dear friend. Don’t try to console me with sweet words, dear, I know what you will encounter and what you may have to do. But please, don’t be cruel and don’t be apathetic. Don’t be the people who started this war. However, I have a feeling you’ll be fine. I know you say I’m shit at gut feeling (yes, I know what you say when you think I’m not listening) but I know you and I have a faith in you.

I’m sorry I haven’t been around much, and wasn’t much of a company. It makes my heart break, dear, to look at you and see you showing such affection to a lost cause like me. I still think you should’ve left me at the hills and completed the arrays yourself; I know you can... But you didn’t. And I’m immensely glad for that. The last few years have been the best of my life, dear friend, you made me happy, and I apologize I haven’t been able to do the same. Thank you.

I’ve rambled on too much now, I’m afraid. If there’s few things I’m confident in my knowledge, it’s that you will be fine; even if you couldn’t do it or our mission goes sour or _even if that blasted heir is actually dead_ , everything will be fine and don’t be hard on yourself. You know the rest.

Your loving professor, B.P.L

P.s: I’ve attached the copy of my will, or what I remember of it, but considering my executors are most likely dead, I’ll just give it to you. I’m not sure what good a will and testament will do since the nature of our mission will undo this timeline.

The Will of Bogdan von Litke

I, Bogdan Petrovich Litke, otherwise known as Bogdan von Litke of Arkhangelsk in the Archistrategos Oblast, hereby revoking all the other wills heretofore made by me, do make this my last will and testament, in manner following that is to say:

First: I direct my executor(s), herein after named, to arrange my funeral privately, bury me in an unmarked grave along with the clothes I had at the time of death. If the circumstances of my death happen in a hostile environment and endanger the executor(s) to carry out my funeral, any identification of my person I carried at the time of my death should be either destroyed along with my body or taken by the executor(s).

Second: I give and bequeath to my friend, Ilya M. Lobaev, of Lobaev County, Archistrategos Oblast, all of my possession which consists of my research papers, three (3) chalk sticks, one (1) box of matches, and a bottle of cyanide pills (2 pills).

Thirdly: To my remaining family member(s) I give nothing for they will evidently live long and prosper with their current position in the army.

Lastly: I hereby appoint Zolotoi Safe and Deposit Company and Dobrinya Solokov executors of this (my) will, and direct that they be not required to give any surety upon their bond as executors, and so far as I have the power so to do that they be not required to file any inventory or to render any public account of my estate. IN TESTIMONY WHEREOF, I have hereunto set my hand this 23rd day of December, in the year of one thousand nine hundred and twenty-six (1926).

/Signed/ Bogdan Petrovich Litke

Signed, published and declared by said Bogdan Petrovich Litke as and for his last will and testament, in our presence, who have, at his request, in his presence and in the presence of each other, hereunto subscribed our names as witness.

Sergei Alexandrovich

Xenia Alexandrovna 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see, good to see you back.  
> 1\. Penicillin is truly a miracle; while the records show that people used molds for their antibiotic effect, the first isolation and successful treatment was at 1928. But there were papers on it in 1920 and 1923 which got little attention.  
> 2\. Though based on real will that was written in 1926, the last will and testament is more formal than this, obviously, but give the man a break, he's in middle of war.  
> 3\. The witnesses to the will are important.


End file.
